


A Minute

by hotskytrotsky



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Workplace Relationship, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 21:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11929932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotskytrotsky/pseuds/hotskytrotsky
Summary: So I work with this girl. She's really cute. Really fucking cute. But I don't think she likes me.





	A Minute

**Author's Note:**

> HotskyTrotsky is back and writing smut this time, I guess. Sorry, parents. Sorry, boss.

Hey, she says, walking by my desk. Do you have a minute?

Her voice is deep and dark, like sandpaper. Whenever she talks, even to Kai, it sounds like flirting.

I do have a minute.

Come with me for a sec.

I have a sec, too.

I follow her out into the hot hallway, where the skylights bounce brightly off the carpet. Last week I saw her at the end of the hallway, there, drinking a grape Fanta and talking to Milly. I felt good about seeing the Fanta in her hand. Previously I’ve only ever seen her eat things like quinoa and squash. I’m glad even she drinks soda.

In front of me, I can see her shoulders swinging tightly in the gridded fabric of her button-up.

I barely know anything about her, if I’m being honest. I’ve seen her eat quinoa and squash. She doesn’t drink coffee. She gets here at 6:30 in the morning to use the gym before work, which is crazy.

I’d like to know more. If I’m being totally honest, I desperately want to know more.

Last week, Isla asked me if she’s dating anyone. As if I know. Sometimes she goes out to lunch with a few of the folks who work here. Milly. Two of the people who work downstairs. She could be dating any of them. Or anyone else in her life, which I know nothing about. I wish Isla were able to tell me.

Isla has her phone number. I don’t. On lazy weekends, sometimes I let myself hope that I’ll get a message from Isla saying that she’s asked for my number, and is it ok to pass the information along. Is it ok. Oh boy, is it ok.

Then maybe after that, I’d get a message directly from her. Hey, I’m in your neighborhood. What are you up to today? After that, my imagination goes a bit blank. I’d just really like to see her face on those lazy weekends. In profile, she looks like a classical Italian painting. With her strong nose and pale skin.

Where are we going?

Down to Records.

So maybe my imagination doesn’t totally go blank. Maybe on those lazy weekends, I think about that time we took a cab ride, and there were three people squeezed in the back seat. And her thigh pressed snug against mine. I don’t know why I was so surprised. She looks so little, so athletic. But she actually carries her weight in her hips and thighs, just a bit.

So maybe I think about her thigh snug against mine, and all kinds of other things. Like what her classical face would look like on her own lazy weekends or weeknights, head thrown back, eyes shut, mouth open. Like her voice, with that tantalizing hint of gruffness, whispering sounds that don’t mean anything.

And maybe it’s gotten pretty bad. To the point where, when we pass each other in the hallway, half of my brain forgets that we’re at work, that we work together, that we aren’t anything else to one another. And I’m transported somewhere dim, where I put my hands on her waist and whisper into her ear.

It’s gotten difficult to swim back to reality. A reality where I don’t really know anything about her, where she doesn’t particularly seem to like or dislike me. A reality where I’m just a co-worker with an inappropriate, and, I’m sure, completely transparent crush.

I am about 95% sure that she can see what’s going through my head. I can’t possibly be acting normally, not with all this fog filling my brain. She made a joke about us being sisters. That must have been a signal, telling me to fuck off. I should absolutely fuck off. I hate every wayward journey my thoughts take when she walks past my desk.

Records is empty. John’s taken Monday off for a long weekend. Back we go, through increasingly archaic filing systems.

This is the storage space we use for really old stuff, she says. She opens the door to yet another dusty room lined with filing cabinets.

I don’t need this stuff for – I start to say. But she closes the door behind me and cuts me off.

This needs to stop, she says.

Oh. Sorry. I say.

She looks at me intently. I always feel like I’m in the hot seat when she looks at me, her eyes are so intense and green.

Wait, I say. What exactly needs to stop?

I hired you, she says. Even though I’m not your supervisor right now, I hired you. So it’s just – I’m sure you – it’s inappropriate.

I didn’t mean to…wait, I say. What did I do, actually? What was inappropriate?

She sighs and rubs her forehead. Her fingernails are short and clean. I shouldn’t be noticing that. I don’t actually need to be noticing that. I already know what that tells me.

You just, she says. When you talk to me. It feels like it’s crossing a boundary.

Oh, God. I say. I’m so sorry. I’ll, uh, I’ll just keep my distance.

It’s okay. It’s not…you didn’t really do anything, specifically. Just a general feeling.

Yeah.

I feel terrible. I want to sink to the floor and melt away. Then I hear her shoe scuff the floor as she takes a step. Suddenly she feels very close to me. I’m extremely conscious of the fact that we are alone.

I hired you, so I can’t - I can’t do anything. You understand?

Yeah, I say.

I look at her. I usually avoid looking at her. Her eyes are on mine, which almost never happens. It’s difficult to breathe, so I go back to looking at the floor.

Could I – could I do something? I say.

Could you do something. She repeats.

I didn’t hire anybody, I say. So could I do something.

I guess so, she says slowly.

Quickly, before I lose my nerve, I put one hand on her cheek and lightly draw forward, placing a light kiss on her lips. It’s over in less than a second. I feel like an idiot. She doesn’t respond. No one moves. I look at the floor.

Elsa, she says with something steely in her voice. Elsa, it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. When you come by my desk and chat, you don’t do anything inappropriate per se, I just…

Yeah? I say.

I just lose my focus, she says. Because then I’m. I’m thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about at work.

What kinds of things?

She laughs. Not her usual snorting laugh, but something breathy and nervous. It’s strange to hear from her.

You know what kinds of things, she says.

Yeah, I say. I do.

Then the half of my brain that doesn’t understand what we are to one another takes over, and all I can see is the skin just above her collar. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve bent down and pressed my face into her jaw and am breathing her in. And I can hear her breathing, too, not easily – with the same heaviness I feel in my chest. I open my mouth and kiss her neck, sucking gently, and immediately I feel her body crumble against the closed door.

I put my hands on her waist, finally, finally, to hold her up.

She sighs. A long shaky sigh.

You don’t have to do anything, boss, I say. Just sit tight and I’ll take care of you.

With that I continue kissing her neck and jaw. Carefully, hesitantly, I take one hand up from her waist, skirting the bottom edge of her bra. I’m hesitant. I don’t know if what’s happened so far means that what I want to do, what I ache for, is going to happen. But then I feel her try to shift down and into my hand, ineffectively, but intentionally.

I run my hand over her breast and, even through the softly-padded bra and the button-down, I can feel the hardness of her nipple.

Is this okay? I ask quietly. I put the slightest amount of pinching pressure on her nipple, though I can barely get a grip on it through her clothing.

She says something that isn’t a word, and I feel the tightness between my legs curl even tighter.

I start to undo her shirt, not very well. I can’t stay slow and intentional. I need to touch her. Shirt open, bra unclasped, my hands finally on her skin. I draw tight, slow circles around her nipple, and she gasps. I kiss down to her chest, to her other breast. Just above the nipple. Then, finally, I put my tongue on her. I feel her hips bump up against my stomach, and I can’t stop myself from moving against her, too.

Fuck, I whisper.

My hand drapes around her hip. Traces lines on her jean-clad thigh, her bare stomach. Lingers on her belt. It seems so fast. I don’t know if I should proceed.

Elsa, she says. Touch me.

Then she laughs.

I mean, if you want to, she says. No pressure.

I definitely want to. I undo the clasp and fly of her jeans and, somewhat unceremoniously, hurriedly, slide my hand into her pants. I don’t mess around with the over the underwear business, not today. Even though I should be prepared for it, I’m surprised when my hand just…glides.

I groan into her neck.

I start working small, light circles around her clitoris. Her hips keep time with my fingers. I’m trying to tease her, to extend this time, but I start to realize that it isn’t going to work. She presses closer and closer against me. I only wish I could see her face better.

I change the pattern of what I’m doing, and she lets out a genuine, full-volume moan.

Shh, I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Then she kisses me, full-on kisses me. She catches my lower lip between hers and wraps her arms around me. I guess we’re done with whatever half-baked pretense we were operating under, that this was somehow less inappropriate if she didn’t touch me.

And she breaks so quickly, before I expect it. She breaks into me, shuddering, gasping, clinging. I keep my hand moving until I’m sure she has gone quiet. It’s over long before I want it to be.

She’s looking at my shoes, still holding on to my waist. Gently, I remove my hand from her pants. I’m afraid of what comes next. Let’s never talk about this again, maybe. Something about HR.

It’s been a while, she says, blushing.

She’s embarrassed about how quickly she came.

Oh, I say. Don’t worry about it.

She looks up, and I kiss her.

I say, the only bad thing about that is I wanted to use my mouth.

Next time, she says.

Next time, I think. Maybe somewhere we don’t have to stand up. Somewhere soft. My house or her house. Either way, we’d take the subway there together. And we could talk on the subway, without me being afraid to look her in the eye. Afterwards, we could eat dinner together. I could ask her what she likes to eat other than quinoa.

It sounds lovely, I think. But while I’m thinking that, I feel a hand sneak under my shirt. And I stop thinking.


End file.
